


Finally

by nerdsherpa



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I thought I didn't have any non-canon OTPs and THEN, Paperwork, These Idiots, Tresspasser spoilers?, Voice Kink, morning breath, these idiots who can't talk about their feelings, when you get too drunk to make the grand romantic gesture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-09-14 16:31:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9193409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdsherpa/pseuds/nerdsherpa
Summary: Hawke and Varric finally get together, much to the relief of literally everyone who knows them. It only takes them three years of dancing around the issue to do it.This work is loosely canon with my Cullen/Lavellan series, "A Hole in the Roof."





	1. Chapter 1

"I make a policy of buying a round in every new bar I visit, and seeing as how this is a _new_ new bar, I'll have to make it double," Hawke announced as she got up from the table.

The newly christened Haven's Rest was bustling with enough happy drunken chatter to cover any discrete conversation, and the newly christened Inquisitor took full advantage of it as she leaned closer to Varric's ear.

"Varric, you know you don't have to hide your relationship from me."

"My _what_?" The words snapped out before he could restrain himself. He'd _known_ Nightingale was good, but —

"Your _relationship_ ," she said, enunciating carefully, entirely mistaking his shock, "You and Hawke."

Varric's jaw dropped open as he heard her final word. "Me and _who_?!" He didn't even try to keep the laughter from spilling out of him.

"Well, I don't see what's so—" the Inquisitor shifted in her seat. "Wait." She set her mug down on the table and turned fully to face him, "You're serious. You mean you _aren't_ —"

" _Definitely_ not."

"But..."

He hadn't seen an elven woman this adorably confused since leaving Kirkwall. "But _what_?"

"It's just so clear that you _care_ for each other."

"Yes, that's why we're _friends_."

"But the way you write about her, it's obvious you find her beautiful—"

"Are you saying there's anyone in Thedas who _wouldn't_?"

The Herald of Andraste frowned. "Varric, you handle all of her affairs. You became a political prisoner to protect her."

"This room is full of people who'd die to keep _you_ safe, Herald." He stressed the last word just slightly. " _And_ you're not the only person who needs to delegate from time to time. Or are you having difficulty keeping your relationship with one of your advisors strictly platonic?"

He punctuated the tease by knocking back a mouthful of ale, but when he lowered his mug he was surprised to find Lavellan blushing scarlet behind her _halla_ — her _valla_ — her tattoos.

"I suppose I _may_ have assumed too much," she murmured, taking a sip that was almost a gulp from her own drink.

Well, that was a nerve he hadn't expected to tap. But good for — he considered the possibilities — Curly. He considered again — probably.

After a moment's thought, the leader of the Inquisition tilted her head carefully to one side and looked back to him. "But you _do_ care for her."

"Of course."

"And find her attractive."

He shrugged, "Sure."

"And you trust each other implicitly..."

" _Yes_?"

"Well," she raised an eyebrow, "why not?"

At that moment, Hawke returned with six mugs, and so Varric wouldn't realize until the next morning that he didn't actually have a single answer to that question.

* * *

"You could go back to Kirkwall, you know. No Seeker dogging at your heels this time," Hawke said as they reached their usual corner of the ramparts. "The place could use your help. Aveline certainly could."

"I know," he sighed. "But I'm staying here. I just… I think this is something I need to see through to the end."

She nodded in understanding, but then her mouth twitched. "I never thought I'd see the day that Varric Tethras would pass by a chance to saunter home to the Hanged Man."

His arms were already crossed, but he rolled his eyes up to her face for emphasis. "If I did walk out of here now it wouldn't be to Kirkwall, and you know it."

She met his stare for a moment, before smiling widely and looking off towards the horizon, which meant _I'm secretly much more touched by that than I let on_. "It _would_ make the journey to Weisshaupt a lot more entertaining."

It had taken some convincing to get Hawke up early enough on the morning after public farewell drinks for a private farewell chat — well, very little convincing of the theory of the thing and quite a lot of thumping on the door to her room in practice. It hadn't left him with a lot of time to say what he wanted to say, but maybe that was for the best.

"I've got an idea I want to run by you before you leave, Hawke." He took a step back, hopping slightly to take a seat on the parapet. "Inquisitor Lavellan suggested it, actually."

"Oh? She's awfully stuffy, isn't she?"

"Eh, she's just a little starstruck by you, I think."

Hawke stuck her tongue out and grimaced. " _Why_?"

Varric decided that wasn't worth a response other than arching an eyebrow.

"Fine, _yes_ ," she snapped, "but _she's_ the _Inquisitor_." She lowered her voice almost to a mutter. "And even if she wasn't, she can do things with a bow like I've never seen before."

He blinked, only-a-little-bit-mock scandalized. "Ah- _hem_ ," he enunciated.

"I said bow, not crossbow, you _ego with boots_. And anyway I've never seen _you_ headshot a darkspawn alpha in the middle of a flying backflip."

He grunted. "The flash is less important than the bang, Hawke."

"Oh yes?" she answered, reaching out to finger the embroidered cuff on the end of his sleeve, a pointed act that he decided to ignore.

"And anyway, Bianca hates being upside-do— Wait, stop. There _is_ a thing I want to say. Don't change the subject."

"You're the one who mentioned Inquisitor Lavellan! I was just—"

" _Marian_."

"Ooh," she quieted. "You brought out my first name. It _must_ be serious." She sat down next to him, leaned back on her arms despite the forty-foot drop behind them, and continued in a gentler tone. "What is this _about_ , Varric?"

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I just — I just want you to consider something." _Why hadn't he written this down_? "You don't have to answer now. I just want you to think about it for if we're ever — for _when_ we're back in Kirkwall."

"Alright. But what _is_ it?"

He pursed his lips, inspected his sleeve, and picked a bit of lint off it, which meant _Give me a damn minute, you nug humper_ , and Hawke settled beside him. Together they took in the dawn-bright mountains and Skyhold's courtyard — empty save for a handful of Grey Wardens, loading up packhorses and readying their mounts. They took it in for long enough that Varric had time to wonder how in the world they'd managed to get old enough to learn how to appreciate this sort of thing.

"We've seen some shit, yeah?" he began, when he was ready. "Well, _this_ shit…" he trailed off, and then just restarted the statement as a complete sentence. "This. Inquisition. Shit."

"Yeah," she agreed.

"Yeah."

He took a breath and let it out. "A few months ago I thought the world was ending. It might still. And we may have seen some shit, you and I, but Adamant — Adamant felt… Too close. It made me think about —"

He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence, until the silence had stretched long enough to say it for him.

"You wouldn't even have been there," he frowned, "if I hadn't told the Inquisition. If I hadn't written that damn book."

"You mean if you hadn't told the truth about me when no one else could?"

"And none of _that_ would have happened if I hadn't roped you into Bartrand's expedition—"

"Varric, that money got my mother out of Lowtown. You _lost_ your brother—"

"So did y—"

"Joining the Wardens is the best thing that could have happened to Carver!"

"Joining the—? _Dying young in the Deeproads_ is the bes—"

" _Varric Tethras_ ," she said it in the ominous tone she usually reserved for dogs that chew up brand-new furniture, "you are _not_ the sole cause of every one of my problems, and if I ever hear you talking like this again I will — I'll —"

She narrowed her eyes, a smile almost on her lips. "I will send the Merchants' Guild your forwarding address."

He inhaled sharply and embarrassingly involuntarily.

"The world might end. Either of us might die. But you're not going to lose me. You couldn't if you tried."

He sputtered, and then he stopped. And then he laughed, and kept laughing.

She stared at him, nostrils flaring.

"Sorry," he composed himself, "I'm not laughing at you. It's just that you're right. I couldn't even if I tried."

"I'm always right," she sniffed, not entirely pacified by his explanation, "except for all those times I've already apologized for. Now, Maker's sake, Varric, what is this _about_?"

"It's about this," he said, and laid his hand on top of hers, atop the stone, still cool from the dark of evening.

Her fingers twitched immediately to knit between his, and she said "Oh."

Then she looked at their hands with something akin to horror on her face. " _Oh_!"

He sat stock still, waiting for her to yell, or draw a knife, or do any of the other things he'd seen her do in moments of extreme surprise. But she didn't move either.

"But… Bianca?"

"We're not really… We're just not. Anymore."

"Varric," her voice went sad and sympathetic, "I'm sorry. I had no idea."

He shrugged. "We're still friends. We were both feeling a little too old and busy to play the star-crossed lovers anymore, that's all."

"Still, you were together so lo—"

He tightened his fingers around hers. "This isn't about Bianca, Hawke."

Concern flashed to fear again on her face. She bit her lip and looked back to the landscape. The landscape was safe.

"Varric, I… Wait," her head whipped around, "this was _the Inquisitor_ 's idea?"

"Sort of," he laughed, despite himself. "She'd assumed we already were."

Hawke doubled over laughing, but her hand stayed in his. " _Why_?"

"She — she made some good points, actually."

She laughed again, her voice just a little manic at the end.

"I'm not asking you to answer," he said firmly. "I'm just asking you to think about it. Let me know the next time we talk."

"I don't know how long I'll be in Weisshaupt, Varric."

He sighed. "I know."

"And I am _utter shit_ at writing letters."

"Yeah, you are. But I'm not asking for anything to change. I just think we should... consider, next time we're in the same place. Whether things could be different."

Hawke looked down at their hands and then back to his face, frightened and sad. "Varric, I— I don't know."

"Me either!" he threw his hands up. "It wouldn't be the stupidest thing we've ever done. But if there's a chance that it… It's just that you almost—" He cut the sentence short himself, punctuating it by exhaling sharply through his nose. How had they gotten so worked up already? _Come on, Tethras. Deflect, defuse, derail. Do that thing you're both so fucking good at._

"Look, Hawke," he slapped his hand on her sleeve and put on his best too-earnest expression, "It doesn't matter, either way." She had already begun to groan disgustedly as he finished: "We won't lose each other."

She swatted his hand off her arm, but in a friendly way, and after a moment of trying to affect an injured air the corner of her mouth twisted upwards. "Well, when I'm right, I'm right," she said, which he knew meant _I'll think about it_.

"Ser Hawke!"

The call came from a Warden below, hands cupped around his mouth. Hawke waved back, and he gestured at the rest of her escort, in the process of mounting up. Varric watched her wave again in acknowledgement.

And when the Warden had turned away, she leaned across the parapet and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "Stay safe, Varric."

He returned the embrace for one good squeeze. "Be good, Hawke."

"Hmp," she protested, as they got to their feet. Then she gripped his chin and bent down to plant a quick, firm kiss on his forehead. "I'm always good."

It was almost too charming to roll his eyes, but not quite.

At the bottom of the steps down from the ramparts, where they were still sheltered from full view in the corner of the courtyard, Hawke paused, long enough that he almost asked her what was wrong. Then he felt her hand on his chest, two fingers on bare skin, as she pushed his back into the stone wall and put her mouth on his.

She smelled like leather polish and tasted like the breakfast they'd just eaten.

When he remembered that he had limbs, he cupped one hand around her jaw like he'd been doing it for years, running his thumb along the thin scar she always tried to hide with her hair. With his other hand, he reached generally for her waist, misjudging the height difference and grabbing a handful of her hip and a few fingers of ass instead. And somehow, there was still enough left of his mind to regret not rinsing his teeth this morning.

She pulled away stammering. "I just. Big decision. Important... context."

" _Marian_ ," he exhaled, softly and embarrassingly involuntarily.

She laughed and gave him that familiar wide smile. But for just a moment — almost not at all — she'd laughed an uncharacteristically, well, _girlish_ little 'ha' and smiled with a shy little twist of her mouth. He wouldn't have believed her capable of it if he hadn't seen it himself.

"I'll see you in Kirkwall, Varric. If the world doesn't end."

He grinned back, just like always, and absolutely did not feel like someone had dropped a buzzing brick into his stomach. "At the Hanged Man."

* * *

Varric's office chair creaked in protest as he dropped himself into it. Last meeting of the day done, he reminded himself. Now, if he could just — he took a deep breath — clear some of these papers, he might be able to get out of the Keep while there was still a bit of twilight left.

Ship schedules, customs reports; routine. Fine stationery bearing strident demands to preserve the statues in the Gallows as historical artifacts; straight into the wastebasket. An envelope with the Inquisition's seal merely contained the details of Haleth and Curly's plans to winter in Kirkwall; it was quickly skimmed and set aside for a more thorough read later. Aveline's weekly report, blessedly short because she'd adapted quickly to his quirks of management...

" _Excuuuse_ me, but I'm looking for an _auuudience_ with the — _oh_! Oh, _Maker's breath_ you look ridiculous in that thing."

"Oh, shut _up_ , Hawke." He snatched the viscount's circlet from his head. Andraste's tits, was he getting so used to it that he was forgetting to take it off?

Then realization dawned.

In the time it took him to shout her name and get out from behind his desk, her longer legs had carried her halfway across the room. He reached to clasp her hand, and… "What —" Somehow his shoulder was in her armpit, "wh—" He felt fingers scrabbling at the back of his collar, "what are you —"

They hit the floor with a clatter of armor and travelling gear.

"What was _that_ , Hawke?!"

"Oh fuck, I was," she lost the rest of the sentence in laughing. "I was _trying_ —" More laughter.

"Were you trying to _dip me_?"

An explosion of giggles happened under him, through which she could only nod helplessly.

"Did I hear you say — _oh, Maker have mercy_."

They'd fallen with their heads pointed towards the doorway to his office, and Hawke tipped hers back ridiculously to get an upside-down look at the woman standing in it. "Aveline!" she crowed happily.

Varric had a sudden flash of insight into how they must look from the door; Hawke belly-up and arching her chest, him on his hands and knees over her.

Aveline rolled her eyes, "You can say hello tomorrow, Hawke," and walked away, muttering a word just on the edge of his hearing.

"Your _hair_!" Hawke gasped after her. "It's _amazing_!"

Varric forgot to stay embarrassed. "Did she say _'finally_?!'"

"That's what Isabella said, too. She was in the Hanged Man." An unsteady finger wavered its way up to somewhere near his nose. " _You_ weren't," she accused.

He recalled the last words they'd exchanged in Skyhold, going on three years ago, and bit back his next remark. He should have realized that it wasn't just the smell of _salt_ brine coming off her in waves.

"So you went to the Hanged Man."

"It was on the _way_ ," she protested. "And I was _nervous_ so I had a _drink_ and then Isabella made me tell her _why_ I was nervous and she said I _definitely_ needed to be properly drunk and _she was right_."

"How drunk _are_ you?"

She put her hands over her face and for a moment sounded almost sober. "Oh Maker, Varric, I'm so drunk."

He sat up, straddling her waist, and she grunted uncomfortably at the weight on her stomach.

"Are you 'puking in the Viscount's office' drunk?"

"Ugh. No."

"Good." He peeled one of her hands away from her face. "So you told Isabella why you were nervous, and she said 'finally'?"

"Yes."

"And then you came up here and tried to dip me."

She giggled.

"Well," he said softly, trying to keep what wanted to be a wide smile down to a gentle smirk. "Message received, Hawke." He put his fingers through hers, clasping her hand, "And it's a welcome one."

She opened one eye to inspect his smile before breaking into one of her own, but he put a hand between their mouths when she clumsily lunged upward at him.

"No, nope. None of that. Not now. Even if you remember it later you'll just be embarrassed by it."

" _Ugh_ ," she flopped back to the floor, staff clattering. "You're right."

"If that was the sort of thing you had in mind, you shouldn't have gotten this drunk." He rolled off her and to his feet. "Now get up. I'm taking you home."

"But I've just _been_ there!" she drawled, giggling at her own joke.

He rolled his eyes, "I'm not talking about the Hanged Man."

* * *

"There weren't any eggs, so it's not a proper hangover breakfast, but I've managed to toast some bread and locate cheese and an apple, so that's _something_."

There also weren't any trays as far as he could find — at least, not anywhere he could reach — which is why he'd had to pile everything in a large mixing bowl, but if she wanted to complain about that she could go explore the kitchen herself.

Hawke twitched slightly at the sound of his voice and then stretched languidly under the bedclothes. When he'd left her at the door of her room with an armful of clean linen the night before, he'd had to hold her waist to keep her from toppling over as she kissed his forehead. He was impressed that the sheets were even in the general _vicinity_ of the bed.

"I actually," she inhaled deeply into a yawn, "don't feel that bad," and sighed it out, pulling a pillow over her head. "Travelling must agree with me," she added, voice muffled.

Varric left the bowl and the pitcher of water on the bedside table, dragged her chair over, and installed himself in it, propping his elbows on its arms and knitting his fingers.

"What are you doing in my house this early? Bodahn let you in?"

"Well," he drawled, "there's a few things about that, Hawke. One, it's half-past noon."

The pillow groaned.

"Two, Bodahn and Sandal left for Orlais when you went into hiding, if you remember."

The pillow grunted.

"And technically it's _my_ house, at the moment."

"What?!" The pillow toppled aside as she levered herself half upright. "When did _that_ happen?"

"When the holdings of the Hawke estate passed into a trust under my management until such a time as you or another Hawke heir returned to Kirkwall to reclaim them, according to the instructions in your will in the case of your death or disappearance," he said slowly.

"That's… smart." Still tangled in the sheets, she at least managed to sit upright against the headboard. "And when did _that_ happen?"

"When I had the papers drafted for you after you inherited from your mother, because you were too busy spending that year facedown in a mug of beer. Anders wouldn't hear of the trust falling to him, because — well, I guess because of _everything_ about him, in retrospect."

Hawke rubbed sleep from her face, muttering, " _Bodahn, Sandal, the dog's with Isabella…_ is Orana still doing alright?"

"Mm-hm," he nodded. "Still running her day home for elven kids. She's got a couple of older girls to help her out now, thanks to a gracious loan of capital from the Hawke estate — no interest, of course."

"Good. She's happy with it?"

"Positively bubbling."

" _Good_. She's fucking earned it. Am I forgetting anyone?"

"Nobody important —"

" _Just Gamlen_ ," they finished in unison.

After she'd carefully finished laughing, Hawke carefully collected the pillow and hugged it loosely to her chest,. "So…" she glanced too-casually at the corner of the ceiling. "You live here now?"

"Naah," he'd been waiting for this question, and smiled, "I just sleep here, sometimes. They can put the circlet on my head but I'll be a nug's uncle before I'll take over the Viscount's suite. _But_ …" he leaned back in the chair, shrugging. "The Keep was keeping me late more than I liked, and the dark walks to the Hanged Man were getting tiresome, and that's about when it occurred to me that I did _technically_ own a piece of convenient Hightown real estate."

"...do you sleep in _here_?" It sounded like she couldn't make up her mind whether she was pleased, embarrassed, or coming on to him, and he laughed.

"No, I had a bed and some things put into the second floor of the library."

"That's — no, actually, that's quite nice. That suits you." A far away smile crossed her face.

"I can give you the full tour later, but I haven't changed much."

"Mother's room?"

"A sorely-needed dusting, but otherwise entirely untouched."

Her expression softened even more as she took in the bowl haphazardly piled with food and two tall glasses. "You're too good to me, Varric."

She dropped her chin to rest on the hugged pillow. "I'm _not_ good for people."

"I'm not going to blow up a Chantry, Hawke," he said firmly.

"That doesn't change the fact that if I'd been better at… if I'd been better, Anders might not have—"

"Hey! I don't get to blame myself for you, remember? And you don't get to blame yourself for Anders. Anders _and_ Justice."

She made an infuriatingly noncommittal noise, flopped over, and pulled the pillow over her face again. "Agree to disagree."

The benefit of not changing out of the loose trousers and shirt he'd slept in was that he didn't have to kick off his boots before climbing across the bed to her.

"Hey," he began, putting an arm around her waist.

"No," she said, "No, that's ridiculous."

"What? I was just trying to—"

"No," she sat up and began shoving at him, "You're too small."

"I am _not_ 'too small' to sp—"

But several protest-filled moments later — and even though he was still on top of the sheet and she under — Hawke had her arms wrapped around his chest from behind, her breath warm and ticklish on the nape of his neck. He gave up and ran his left hand up hers until he could lock their fingers together.

"So we're doing this."

"Seems that way," he agreed.

Her breath whispered, steady across his skin.

"Does this feel strange to you?"

He considered the question.

"No?"

"Me either. That's the strangest thing about it."

She tucked her knees into the crook of his, and he couldn't help but agree. The only odd thing about this was how normal it felt.

He realized he'd started stroking her hand with his thumb.

"When did you decide?"

"Oh, fuck me," she muttered into the back of his head, "it's so embarrassing."

He waited, secure in the knowledge that he could grin all he wanted without her seeing it.

"It was when you said my name. After I kissed you. It was like it just… fell out of you. I don't know how to describe it.

"It was _terrible_ ," she added.

He chuckled. "It took me a _little_ longer than that."

"Of course it did."

"About five seconds."

"...Oh, you complete ass," she muttered.

"After we kissed, you got all… wibbly."

"No, I didn't."

"You most certainly did."

"I have never been so slandered in all my life, Varric Tethras."

" _Anyway_ , you did. I didn't even know that was something you _do_ , Hawke. I wanted to make you do it again." He clasped both hands around her forearm, smirking to himself. "Maker forgive me, but I want to be able to make you do that _whenever_ I want. I suppose it's what I get for writing all those terrible romances."

He chuckled, "Actually, I've got a story for you about that and Cassan—the Seeker—"

"Varric?"

"—So it turns ou— yes?"

"Am I sober enough to kiss you now?"

"Well," he said slowly, "let's see if we can't pick up where we left off."

This time, after straddling her waist, he took a moment to really look at her, lying beneath him in her undershirt and — he was fairly certain — nothing else. Her hair was shorter now, but not so much that she couldn't still pull it forward to cover her jaw and ear on the one side. There was a new scar in her eyebrow and deep circles under her eyes, but nothing that worried him. He'd seen underfed Hawke, barely-keeping-it-together Hawke and pulled-in-all-directions Hawke. This was his Hawke, home at last.

"What are you staring at?"

"You, you complete ass."

She rolled her eyes. But when he ran his thumb up the line of her jaw and over the scar she arched her neck into his fingers: hungover, tired, but still abundantly happy to be near him.

"Marian..."

She inhaled sharply. " _Don't_."

He let a grin split his face and he looked her right in the eye, which meant _Well now I have to_.

"I lo—"

"Don't say it!"

"Marian Hawke," he put one hand over his heart and fluttered his eyelashes, "I lov—"

The pillow hit him in the face, and if he didn't get to finish his sentence, then that was fine. She'd grabbed the front of his shirt and, through a combination of sitting up and pulling down, had gotten in a position to kiss him, fierce and insistently, and this time he _had_ remembered to rinse his teeth.

She smelled like the open sea and tasted like a hangover, and it was everything he'd been waiting for for going on three years.

With him sitting in her lap, their faces were just about the same height, and she took full advantage, slipping her hands under his clothing to lock her arms around his waist and fairly shoving her tongue into his mouth.

He took his shirt off as soon as she gave him a moment to breathe.

"Your tan line is ridiculous."

"We make sacrifices to share our best qualities with the world, Hawke."

"Mmm," she hummed from where she was nuzzling his chest.

He tipped them gently back to the bed, punctuating the movement by kissing her, before propping himself up on one arm.

"Have I ever mentioned," she said, stroking a hand over his bicep, "how jealous I am of your arms?"

"You might have, once or twice," he understated, slipping his hand under her shirt to spread his fingers over her ribs. "But don't change the subject," he murmured as he fitted his hand around the full bottom curve of her breast, "we were talking about cleavage." He watched her eyes glaze over as he palmed it fully, her nipple hard and obvious against his skin.

"Harder?" she breathed, after he'd gathered her nipple his fingers and pinched, and when he complied she made a noise that reached right down to the pit of his stomach. He lowered his head to mouth at her other breast through her shirt, nipping and tonguing through the fabric, and when she yanked at her collar until it was uncovered he took the invitation.

" _Ffffffuck_ ," she moaned, when he got both her nipples between his teeth and fingers.

"Language," he said, kissing one one aureola while he ran a finger around the other.

Then he felt her hands creep up the inside of his thighs to the part of _him_ that was becoming hard and obvious. Without being able to look at what she was doing, her touch was tantalizingly off the mark — until it wasn't.

" _Ffffff_ ," he hissed as she squeezed her fingers down the length of him, gentle but firm.

"What was that?" she asked innocently, still stroking him through the fabric of his trousers.

" _Ffffffi_ —" he dropped his forehead to her chest, "—I just remembered how long it's been since I've done this, Hawke."

"Maker's balls," she groaned in sympathy, "me too." Her hands stroked down his thighs, up to his ass and then over his back and neck, where she sank her fingers into his hair and tousled it, pulling out the band. "But if I'm remembering _correctly_ , I think this is the part where we take the rest of our clothes off."

A few moments later they were gloriously naked together, limbs tangled and pressing skin on skin. He sank his fingers into the warm, soft place between her legs in a way that he hoped wasn't too eager, and found her thrillingly, flatteringly wet. It was an awkward position for her to get a hand around his prick, but she'd done it, stroking it and running her fingers over its head in a way that was already too close to too much.

He redoubled the efforts of his own fingers and her hand blessedly fell away, drawing a streak of his own wetness up his back as she clung to his shoulders, her fingernails digging into his skin.

"Varric," she was panting into the crook of his neck, now, "please…"

"I could go down on you," he murmured. "If you like. I'm fairly certain I still remember how to do that."

"No, I just — Could you... _hahh_ ...would you," she swallowed, "talk to me?"

"What about?" he grinned into her shoulder.

She growled. " _Contextually appropriate things_."

He laughed, softly and low in his register, and using the same tone he said "You make a very pretty picture right now, Hawke."

She sighed against his skin, and clutched him tighter.

"The Champion of Kirkwall, responding to my hands like any other finely tuned device." As he said it, he pressed three fingers inside her, _hooked_ just so — and she cried out, arching her body into him.

"Don't," she whimpered, "don't stop."

He withdrew his fingers, sliding them upwards until the outside of her was as slick as the rest, rubbing firm, careful circles. "You don't know how often I've imagined this in the past few years, Hawke. What you taste like. What your skin would feel like. What _all_ of this would feel like. Kissing your breasts. Finger fucking you. _Fucking_ you."

She moaned, beginning to whimper softly with every quickening breath.

"Is this what you thought about on cold nights in Weisshaupt?"

He could feel her muscles quivering where her thigh was pinned between both of his.

"Did you think of me, _drawing you like a bow_?"

She muffled the expletive by shouting it into his shoulder, as all the tautness of her body gave way. She gasped and twitched and clung to him, and he pressed his lips to her shoulder. When she loosened her hold he licked his fingers clean and folded her into his arms, her back to his front, and made a mental note to add a second item to the list of things he'd like to be able to make her do whenever he wanted. 

Eventually, she let out a great breath, ending it with a small, happy sigh.

"See? he said. "Isn't this comfortable?"

He could _feel_ her rolling her eyes.

She sat up and began shoving at him again. "Up. Sit up. Against the headboard."

He really should have been able to figure out what was going on before she shoved the pillow behind his back and straddled him.

"Oh."

"We both know you're not _that_ selfless, Varric."

With her sitting in his lap, his face was even with her chest. "I work very hard to maintain my aura of self-interest, actually," he quipped, a time honored way of covering a stomach suddenly full of butterflies.

"I know," she cupped one of her breasts in the direction of his face, "you'd think you'd have gotten better with practice."

He took the hint and her nipple in his teeth, relishing the breathless hum it drew out of her.

And then she rocked her hips against his.

" _Marian_ ," he breathed, as if the word was falling out of him, his fingers digging themselves into her waist. He heard her breath hitch.

"Terrible," she muttered softly. And then she rose to her knees and reached between them, positioning his prick just so before she started to lower herself.

"I—" he gasped, and Maker's mercy, she paused. "I'm not going to last very long. Too out of practice."

"I… don't care?" she sounded puzzled, but when she raised her hand and lifted his chin, he saw the sardonic eyebrow. "We have plenty of time, Varric. It's not like the world is ending."

"Heh," he laughed. " _Hahhh_ ," he gasped, as she began to slowly drop her hips again. She let out a great, satisfied groan when she was done, and he let out a breath he'd only been vaguely aware he'd been holding.

"Maker, that's lovely," she rocked slightly, "I've _missed_ this."

"'Lovely'?" He panted, "it's damn incr—"

She closed her eyes and _flexed_ just so — and he made a sound that would have deeply embarrassed him in any other context.

A sudden fear struck him and he snatched up her wrist to look at it: bare. She calmly brought her other forearm to his face, and he exhaled in relief. There was the blood-red charm, bound to her wrist by a thin leather thong, that Merrill had made for all the women they knew after finding out about the Chantry's approved methods. It had been one of the few times he'd seen the gentle elf genuinely furious.

"Don't worry, Varric," she smirked at him, "I _also_ think it's best if this union of the houses of Tethras and Hawke lasts but _one_ generation."

"Sorry. Sudden panic."

"Don't worry about it. Now," she said it deliberately slowly, rolling her hips, "where were we?"

He flexed _just so_ —

" _Hhhuh_ ," she threw one hand against the headboard. " _Mmmaker_."

"Somewhere about there, I think."

She slipped her other hand out of his wrist, knit her fingers in his, and pressed them against the headboard. She narrowed her eyes, a smile almost on her lips. She lifted her hips, expertly, until he was barely inside her at all, and then brought them swiftly down again.

He lost the ability to think for a few moments.

By the time he came back to himself, she had developed a steady, overwhelming rhythm and he was gripping both her hand in his and a large part of her ass in his other.

" _Hahh_ — _Hhaah_ — _Hhhawke_ ," unable to help himself if he'd wanted to, he began raising his hips to meet hers in time with her movement.

She hummed appreciatively for his effort. "Is this what you imagined?"

 _Maker_ , he was close.

"Me, fucking you?

 _Maker_.

"Fucking _myself_ on you?"

He came with a strangled grunt and his face pressed against the inside of his arm, stretched above him where she'd pinned it to the headboard with her own, and she didn't stop moving until he reached up to pull her into a kiss.

He released her quickly enough, as he was still fighting to catch his breath. She stretched up from the awkward position, the small movements of her hips sending shivers through him, and then trailed her fingers up his chest to his lips. He kissed them, absently.

She chuckled, "Was it good for you?"

It was obvious she already knew the answer, but he nodded. It was all he felt capable of doing in the moment.

"Maker's _breath_. Varric Tethras, speechless at last."

"Oh, shut up, Hawke," he mumbled. His hands, quite of their own accord, wandered over her hips and thighs. "I think we've made a mess of these sheets."

"Mmm." She lifted herself away from him, sending a final jolt through his spine as they parted. "Good thing you put in another bed."

She dried herself with one corner of the rumpled, scandalized sheet and sprawled across him, head on his chest, legs tangled with his legs. He curled one arm around her and put the other behind his head.

This right here, he stroked his fingers gently over a scar on her side, _this_ he was looking forward to getting used to.

"Varric?"

He blinked, realizing that he'd simply been watching her fingers in the hair on his chest for a long quiet.

"Are you happy being viscount?"

"I —" he took a moment to think, and laughed. "I am, if you can believe it. I didn't think I would be, and I wish I had more time for writing, but. I am."

"Well, I know I said that you look ridiculous in the viscount's crown, and you _do_."

"I _absolutely_ do."

Hawke wrapped her arm around his chest and pulled them closer. "But I'm glad you're viscount. It's the best thing that could have happened to Kirkwall."

Varric grinned shamelessly. "I love you, too, Marian."

He felt her reaction in her entire body, as it curled tighter around him for just a moment, heard it in the soft inhalation that parted her lips. Then there was a long moment of silence.

"Maker _take_ you, Varric Tethras," she said darkly, "you didn't have to say it," and she took her head off his chest and pressed her lips firmly to his.

The next moment of silence was shorter, but eventually they had to breathe. He opened his eyes to find that she was staring at him, looking... lost, and just a little sad. He knew what that meant now.

 _You're too good to me_.

 _You are good for people._ He could feel the words on his tongue, just on the line between said and unsaid. _You've been good for me for so long. I love you._

"Anyway," she spoke before he could, blinking hard, before a more familiar grin spread slowly across her face, and she continued. "There's no need to state the obvious."


	2. The Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick follow up, because I saw [some fanart](https://kauriart.tumblr.com/post/151507314360/men-of-skyhold-varric-varrics-arms-praise-be) and couldn't stop thinking about it for literally three days. Very little plot. Barely any porn. Concerns marriage and piercings but has no depictions/descriptions of piercing in progress, if that squicks you out.
> 
> I made it a second chapter instead of a new work because it doesn't really make sense without the context of "Finally."

There was a morning when Hawke woke with one of his rings on her hand. She'd rolled over in bed and presented it to him wordlessly, the gold band too loose and all but rattling around her third finger, and they'd bubbled simultaneously into laughter. Varric had scattered memories of leaving Aveline and Donnic's anniversary party exactly as drunk as they wanted to be, stumbling gently over cobblestones in the direction of Hightown as he and Hawke discussed the fundamental ridiculousness of matrimony.

He remembered her slurring "Can you imagine either f'us standing at a… a chantry altar? Prob'ly burst into flames."

He remembered pointing out that it would technically make her a viscount _ess_ and walking an entire street accompanied only by her noises of disgust.

He remembered banging to one knee in a filthy back alley, using all of his drunken concentration to thread one of her fingers through the ring, as she squawked in laughter above him.

They'd laughed like idiots at it the next morning, and Varric hadn't thought of it again until a few days later, when he noticed that Hawke was wearing the ring on a chain around her neck.

* * *

It was the start of the merchant season, when the winter squalls surrounding Kirkwall finally let up and allowed a steady flow of galleons in and out of the harbor — a busy time for a viscount. And so Varric had dragged himself awake early to spend a precious hour editing, a pencil end between his teeth, manuscript pages strewn across the bedspread, and under his hands a bit of plank, worn smooth from use, that had served him as a lap desk since Haven.

He had to rescue several of the pages from being crushed as Hawke rolled over and pulled a pillow over her face to ward off the early sun. That's when he noticed it for the first time: the wide, gold band, hung on a simple, human-wrought chain, dangling between her bare breasts.

Every thought of pacing and plot went out of him, obliterated by symbolism. Every part of it captivated him, the sight of the ring and the chain, her bronze skin, the dawn-light; the realization in his head, the stretch of the grin on his face, the curious ache in his chest. The moment was broken when she stirred awake, shoved the pillow away, smiled lasciviously back up at him and pulled him down to her — but he didn't mind.

It was only after the rush of what happened next and the rush of being late to his first meeting that he realized she'd probably thought he was staring at her tits.

* * *

Hawke never said "I love you," and that was fine with him, he didn't need her to. He knew her, and so he knew that she did.

He knew it from the way that when she was even slightly drunk, no matter where or upon what he was sitting, she would clamber into his lap like the world's most talkative but poorly trained mabari. It was in the way she'd so casually made space for their new intimacy, letting him keep his makeshift bedroom in her library, for whenever his viscount's hours sent him to it earlier than she'd ever sleep. He'd gotten used to going to bed alone only to wake up with her body wrapped around his.

He knew it most of all from the way she reacted when _he_ said that he loved her: with sweet, uncharacteristic vulnerability — before she'd stammer the surprised squeak, happy sigh or furious blush into indignation. Dragging that reaction from her when she least expected it had become one of his favorite games.

He knew she might never say it, and he knew why; how disastrously loving had gone for her the last time and how close she'd come to never doing it again. They'd fallen in love in the same way they'd done everything else together, stumbling blindly from familiar territory into something completely beyond their usual set of skills, in a revelation that seemed to shake the foundations of the world.

He knew what the ring on the chain was. It was simple, unadorned, nearly unnoticeable. Something that had started as a joke, so she could always play it off if asked directly. Something that was private; that only the two of them would understand or even recognize.

This was how she could say "I love you."

He didn't say anything about the ring. Neither did she. Sincerity suited them about as well as the idea of marriage or a wedding or, Maker forbid, _children_. And every time he saw it — swinging out of her shirt as she leaned forward — the pleasant ache in his chest returned, like it was swelling and constricting at the same time. 

He told her "I love you" all the time. The fact that he was often doing it to get her to go all wibbly in front of one of their friends didn't mean he meant it any less. She knew that. But every time he saw it — tumbling over her skin as she got into bed, swinging from her shirt as she leaned forward — an uneasy question grew within him.

 _Did_ she know that?

 _...Fuck_.

* * *

It had been a morning of anticipatory nerves and an afternoon of adrenaline-fueled euphoria before the nerves came back to remind him that this plan could still all go south the moment he took his shirt off. Agonizingly, he had nothing to do with himself until Hawke got home.

After years of exile and travel, she'd resumed her lifestyle as Kirkwall's most competent fixer of dangerous problems, hunting down slavers with Isabella one week, clearing Sundermount of whatever wraith had appeared to threaten Dalish in the area with Merrill and Fenris on another. But today, he knew, she was making a routine trip to her mines. As Hawke put it, entrepreneurship gets awfully boring after you slay the dragon.

He eventually managed to quiet his thoughts by tinkering idly with a new spring-trap mechanism, and did it so effectively that he didn't notice Hawke had returned to the mansion until she set her wineglass down on his work table.

"Come to bed?" she asked, and because he'd been trying for five minutes to set a single tiny pin _just so_ , the words that left his mouth were:

"Awfully early, isn't it?"

Her fingertips, running down the hair on his chest, brought his attention back to his surroundings, as she laughed and murmured into his ear, "Varric. I meant ' _Come_ to _bed_?'"

"Oh."

He turned his head towards her, catching a glimpse of the ring as she bent over him, swinging gently on its frankly, if he was being honest with himself, quite flimsy chain, and felt all the day's tension roll out of his limbs.

She was wearing nothing but a silk robe. He reached up and pulled their lips together, "Yeah, _that_ 's nice any time, isn't it?" and he followed her to her bedroom.

* * *

"Hawke, I, uh," he started, before they could start, "I did something today."

She paused the quick process of unbelting her robe, and watched him curiously as he sat on the bed and carefully pulled his shirt off.

" _Oh_ ," was the first sound she made, when she saw the oblong bandage stuck to the left side of his chest. She sat next to him immediately, lips tightly shut, eyes wide in excitement, and he realized the linen swatch was having about the same effect as brightest wrapping paper.

"It, uh, doesn't look the _prettiest_ , at the moment, but… um." He looked at her face again, and then he sighed and began picking at the edge of it. "Why don't I just show it to you."

" _Please_ do," she grinned. And then she gasped.

His nipple was still pinker than on his right, and flecked just slightly with dried blood, but the gold ring that pierced it shone all the same.

" _Varric_!" Her eyes volleyed up and down between his chest and his face, but she was smiling through her surprise and excitement. She reached out a hand and then stopped herself, making a mighty effort, he could tell, to focus. "How long until I can play with it?"

"Two weeks, Hawke, at least," he said firmly. "Hey!" he cautioned over her groan of frustration, "it could have been the better part of a year, if the Rose hadn't hired a resident healer as soon as the Circles fell."

She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, as if to restrain herself. "Did it hurt?"

"What kind of question is _that_?"

"Well, I just—"

"It hurt like a _bitch_ , Hawke!"

She snort-laughed, loudly, and he couldn't help joining in. "Well, does it hurt _now_?"

"No, not really," he flexed, experimentally, watching the ring move as his skin shifted, "The bandage is just to keep it from snagging on things. It just… I'm just very _aware_ of it. I'm not supposed to touch it for two weeks."

Hawke gnawed at her lip. " _Maker_ , that's infuriating." The hungry stare she had leveled at his chest was nearly comical, but he didn't laugh. She shook her head, as if to clear it, or possibly in disbelief, and looked back to his face. "I had no idea you were considering something like this."

"Well, it's been a pretty recent thing."

"Really?" She tilted her head to one side. "What gave you the idea?"

He hesitated. She wasn't getting it. "Well," he said, gesturing at the ring hanging at the hollow of her throat. It was a lame response, but maybe it would —

" _I_ gave you the idea?"

— no, she thought he'd been indicating her, generally. Crap. Fucking _sincerity_.

"Well, I, uh." If he was looking at the ring he didn't have to make eye contact. "You've got my ring now, and I -- I _like_ that you have it." _Maker_ , this had all been a stupid, stupid idea. "And I thought you might like it if _I_ had... I thought— Well, it's over my hear—"

He only caught a glimpse of her jaw dropping open before she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his neck, a place where he wouldn't be able to see it.

He could feel her shaking.

"I love you," she whispered.

He froze, uncertain even of whether to put his hands on the curve of her back, grown tense and taut as a spring.

"Yeah, I know," was all he eventually found to say, gently touching the fingertips of one hand to the chain around her neck and not even managing to be sardonic.

"I know I don't say it," she pressed her face further into his shoulder, "But you know it, don't you? Do you _need_ me to say it?"

"Hawke," he said, to the rising urgency in her voice, pushing his hand between them, fishing the ring from where it hung, holding it up and towards her, "You say it _all the time_."

"But if you needed me to _say_ it. Would you ask?"

The intensity of her gaze was just making him more uncomfortable and he dropped his eyes to an empty spot on the floor, trying to figure out exactly how this had spiraled so far so quickly.

"Would you ask me to say it?" she pressed.

He conceded her point, sighing. "No. I probably wouldn't. So how would you know?" He let go of the ring and gently ran his fingers up and over the chain, adjusting the clasp so that it lay at the back of her neck. "I don't need you to say it. I can read it, in everything you do. Got that?"

Hawke nodded, relaxing.

"And uh, I always mean it, but a lot of times I do say it just to get a rise out of you," he coughed. "If you want me to stop that I can."

"No," she laughed, "I _hate_ it, but…" After a moment's silence she ducked her head, a poor attempt to hide her flushed cheeks. "No."

"Hey, Hawke."

" _No_."

"I love you."

"Oh, fuck _off_ ," she buried her scarlet face in her hand.

He laughed, and then yelped as she smacked his pectoral muscle, not close enough to hurt, but close enough to make him fear it would.

She reached out again, but slower, and gently put her fingertips on the left side of his chest, carefully not _quite_ touching the ring. "Varric, _this_ is…"

And he thought she might have to look away again, but after a moment's pregnant silence she just shook her head and laughed. "We're a fucking mess. But at least we're a mess in the same ways."

"Yeah," he put his hand around hers, on his chest, over his heart, "That part's nice. Hey, Hawke."

The suspicious look she threw him practically made a whipcrack, and he bit back a laugh.

"Do you want to throw a big party? Here in the mansion. Good food, better drinks. Only invite people we actually care about?"

Hawke slowly raised an eyebrow. "What's the occasion?"

He raised an eyebrow back. "Nothing in particular. But I was thinking… maybe we could have a really big cake."

She shook her head. "A cake is too obvious, they'll know immediately."

"OK, no cake. But you have to let me get you a better chain than this. I'll have something shipped from Orzammar."

"If it makes you happy."

"It really will."

They were going to have a _party_. Varric turned her ring over in his fingers, thinking that it suited her neck much better than it had ever suited his hand. He didn't realize she was undoing the sash of her robe until she flicked the front of it open, baring her breasts, stomach and the swipe of curls nestled between her legs in one movement.

"Varric Tethras…" she murmured, and he tore his eyes away from her body to look up at her face. "...I am going to fuck you into the floor tonight."

" _Maker_ ," the thrill swept up his spine and shoved the syllables out of his mouth, and she smiled a cat's smile.

He took a deep breath, but let it out quick. "Do I get to lick your pussy?"

"Get your pants off, idiot."

They were going to have a _fantastic_ party.


End file.
